"The book Jack Chadwick had been reading,-a volume dealing with some rather dry experimental work,-slipped from his fingers and fell with a crash on the floor of the veranda. At the sudden interruption to the sleepy, breathless calm of Lone Island on a July noon, his cousin Tom Jesson, sixteen, and more than a year Jack's junior, looked up from the steamer chair in which he, too, was extended, with one of his quiet smiles."
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